Dark Country (Dungirri)

by Parry, Bronwyn

  Gil didn’t know the finer details of the legal world, but he did know a Queen’s Counsel was not just a barrister, but a senior one, recognised by his peers – and appointed years ago, before they’d changed the designation to Senior Counsel.

  He didn’t have to wait long to meet the man. The automatic doors beyond the reception desk swooshed open, and Matthews strode out, a commanding presence in an impeccable business suit.

  ‘Kris! What a pleasant surprise! I had no idea you were in Sydney,’ he greeted her, kissing her on the cheek, but not, Gil noted, hugging her.

  ‘Hi, Dad. Sorry to burst in on you unannounced. Can you spare me fifteen minutes? I need some urgent advice on a serious matter.’

  ‘Come through. This morning’s case got postponed, so I’ve got a little time. And your friend …’

  ‘Morgan Gillespie – Gil.’ Gil held out his hand and returned the man’s assessing look and his bone-crunching handshake.

  Gil noted the security as they followed Matthews – the swipe-card controlled door from the foyer into an area of meeting rooms and junior offices; discreet cameras; another swipe-card entry into a corridor of offices.

  The office he ushered them into was designed to impress, with an antique oak desk, a matching large table with velvet-upholstered chairs, and a couple of leather armchairs in an alcove. Bookshelves lined the walls, loaded with legal tomes, the shelves nearest the desk also holding an array of photographs.

  He picked a teenage Kris in a family portrait, laughing with a red-haired brother, another brother disapprovingly serious, and a much younger sister, dark-haired and pretty, between her parents. Kris had her mother’s colouring, but there the resemblance ended. Impeccable make-up and hairstyling highlighted her mother’s looks, but he discerned little of character in the portrait. Whereas Kris – and her brother – glowed with life and energy.

  In another photo, with a twenty-something Kris in police uniform, she was flanked by her parents, her sister, and the serious brother, all looking proud. Her police academy graduation, he guessed, and wondered briefly where the laughing brother was.

  Matthews invited them to sit at the table, offered them coffee and, when he learned they’d had an early breakfast on the road, went to the phone on his desk and ordered a light lunch to be delivered.

  Gil left it to Kris to begin, and she did as soon as her father had joined them at the table.

  ‘Dad, this matter has connections with a police investigation, but I need to stress that I’m here on a personal basis, not official.’

  ‘Are you in trouble?’ he asked sharply. ‘Accused of something?’

  ‘No, not that,’ she assured him. ‘And neither is Gil. But some connections of Gil’s have been murdered, and there is a distinct possibility of police corruption in the investigations. I believe his life is threatened, and more so since we found this a couple of hours ago.’ She took the will out of the envelope, unfolded it, and passed it across to her father.

  He withdrew a pair of reading glasses from his pocket, unhurriedly read through the document, pausing only to call ‘come in’ when a knock came on the door. A middle-aged woman wheeled in a trolley with an assortment of gourmet sandwiches, cheeses, fresh fruit and coffee, laid them out on the table, and departed again with a warm smile but no comment.

  Kris passed Gil a plate and napkin. ‘Eat,’ she ordered in a low voice. ‘I don’t know when we’ll get another chance.’

  He needed the coffee more than the food, but he put a couple of sandwiches on his plate.

  Matthews finally laid down the will and set his reading glasses on top of it.

  ‘The testator was a friend of yours?’

  ‘No.’ Gil didn’t care how blunt it sounded. ‘I knew him, but he was no friend.’

  ‘Ah. Nevertheless, it appears to be a substantial inheritance.’

  Gil held his gaze. ‘One I don’t want.’

  ‘Have you heard of Vince Russo, Dad?’ Kris interjected. ‘Do you know anything about him?’

  ‘I’ve heard the name, but I never met him. There was an item recently in the newspaper about his murder. I understand he was a successful businessman, predominantly involved with residential property development.’

  Funded by dirty money, Gil wanted to say, but didn’t. Matthews was a senior barrister, the kind very careful with his words, and Gil had learned over the years to tread equally as carefully with lawyers.

  ‘We need to know a few things, Dad. First, if the will appears legitimate and legally binding, and whether that stipulation about the exclusion of his son and nephews could be contestable. And secondly, if it’s possible to find out through public sources, more about San Damiano Enterprises.’

  Matthews strolled to his desk and made a brief phone call. ‘Adrian, do a search on San Damiano Enterprises. Bring what you find to my office within ten minutes. Thank you.’

  Returning to his chair, he leaned back, clasped his hands behind his head. ‘Regarding your first question, assuming the document is genuine, it appears to be comprehensive. Everything is contestable, of course; however, given the explicit exclusion, and the recent date of the will, I would be surprised if a challenge resulted in an amendment to the legacy. There would have to be a strong argument. I presume the son and nephews are not minors, with a reasonable expectation of parental support?’

  ‘No, they’re not minors,’ Kris replied.

  ‘What if I don’t want it?’ Gil asked.

  Matthews steepled his fingers, studied him. ‘You would be free to dispose of the inheritance as you wish, of course. Although if the assets are as considerable as they appear, I would strongly recommend consultation with a good tax accountant. I take it you believe the son should inherit? Or his daughter?’

  Gil shook his head. ‘Marci’s dead. She was murdered the day before Vince. And Tony …’ He glanced at Kris, unsure how to express it in exact, lawyerly terms.

  ‘Is under suspicion of complicity in both murders,’ Kris said.

  ‘Ah. So your reluctance is due to …?’

  Gil pushed back his chair, strode to the window and watched the blue sky beyond the skyscrapers while he carefully put his words together.

  ‘The source of the original money. The risk to people who … matter to me. And I don’t need it. I’ve got plenty, and what I’ve got, I’ve earned … legitimately and above board.’

  Matthews nodded slowly. ‘I think I understand. I don’t pay a lot of heed to rumours, but that doesn’t mean I don’t hear them. I have heard a number of rumours regarding the Russo family, over the years. And the more recent ones …’ he eyed his daughter, ‘they have me worried for you. For both of you.’

  ‘I have to do my job, Dad,’ Kris said gently. ‘You know, getting the bad guys off the streets.’

  He gave her a fond smile. ‘Yes, my girl, I know.’

  A knock sounded on the door, and a clerk brought in a file.

  ‘San Damiano Enterprises, sir. This is what I’ve found so far. I’ll keep looking, if you like.’

  ‘Yes, please do so.’

  Gil itched to look over the barrister’s shoulder as he flicked through the dozen or more sheets of paper. Instead, Kris pushed his untouched sandwiches towards him, and he ate a couple of mouthfuls while Matthews read, and washed them down with rapidly cooling coffee.

  Matthews looked over his reading glasses at them. ‘It’s a private proprietary company. Russo was sole director and shareholder. Financial reports aren’t readily available, but assets appear to include another large property portfolio. The company is also listed as a shareholder in a considerable number of publicly listed companies, and as a significant donor to charity.’

  Gil swallowed a swear word. There went his hopes that San Damiano was simply a valueless holding company.

  Matthews went to the computer on his desk, typed in a few words, and scanned the results. ‘I thought so. I’m assuming Russo was Catholic. San Damiano is the church where Saint Francis of Assisi had a vision of
Christ instructing him to “repair his house”. From what you’ve told me, the name of the company, and the will, suggests that he was seeking redemption, or trying to right wrongs.’

  That accorded with Simon’s comments earlier, but it didn’t make Gil any happier about the result. He heartily wished Vince had left him right out of his bid for salvation. Getting someone else to dob in his son didn’t amount to much redemption, from Gil’s perspective.

  ‘That reminds me,’ Kris said, obviously thinking of the same thing. ‘I need to copy some documents. Can I use your copier, Dad?’

  Her father opened a connecting door through to another office. ‘Madeline will help you if you need it.’

  And that left Gil alone with her father. He felt the man’s considering gaze, turned and confronted it.

  ‘I don’t suppose you could persuade her to go somewhere safe, or stay with you?’ he asked the older man.

  ‘If you’ve known my daughter for long, you’ll know that no-one can persuade her against what she believes is right. Least of all me.’

  There was sadness in his words, and obviously some history, but he continued without giving a chance for questions. ‘The people who matter to you … is she one of them?’

  Gil didn’t lie. ‘Yes.’

  The man ceased to act as a senior barrister, became simply a father. ‘Is there anything I can do?’

  ‘Keep silent, for now. Don’t mention to anyone – not even others in the family – that we’ve been, or what we’ve discussed. I’d suggest that you also put your security people on alert. I doubt we were tailed here, but someone may make the connection between Kris and you.’

  Unless the Russos really dug about for Kris’s history, he hoped her common-enough name should keep her family out of it.

  Kris returned with a small stack of envelopes. She passed one to her father. ‘That’s a copy of the will. Could you keep it secure? And this too.’ After an instant’s hesitation, she covered her father’s hand with hers. ‘If I’m not in contact within forty-eight hours, Dad, please copy the contents, and have it sent by secure courier to the people whose names I’ve written inside. It’s important.’

  ‘I will.’ He kissed her on the forehead, and then drew her into a brief hug. ‘Be careful, both of you. And next time you’re in Sydney, plan on a little time with the family, hey? Your mother misses you. And Royce and Steph.’

  Royce and Steph, Gil noted. Not Royce, Steph and …?

  She was quiet in the lift going down, subdued.

  It was too risky to discuss Vince and their predicament in a public lift, even if they were alone, and even riskier to put his arms around her, for the same and other reasons.

  ‘Do you see your family often?’ he asked.

  She shook herself out of her thoughts. ‘Not a lot. They never come out bush – can’t understand why I live there – and I’ve been a bit busy the past few years to spend much time here.’ She made an attempt at a grin. ‘Definitely not a city chick any more.’

  ‘Are your siblings here?’

  ‘Yes. Royce is a financial analyst, he works a block or so from here, and Stephanie’s a fashion editor for a glossy mag.’

  ‘In one of the family photos, there was another brother. He looked like you.’

  Her face clouded, and he regretted asking, but she answered the question, her voice flat. ‘That’s Hugh. He died. He saw a woman being assaulted outside a pub, went to help her, and was shot by the assailant. Hugh was twenty-one.’

  And she’d have been maybe nineteen or twenty, he guessed, and very close to her brother. ‘Is that why you became a cop?’

  ‘Partly.’ She smiled wistfully. ‘Partly to annoy my father, who wanted Hugh and me to go into law. Dad and I haven’t always seen eye-to-eye on what constitutes justice. But mostly because I wanted to do something positive for the world, which didn’t involve sitting behind a desk all day.’

  The lift pinged to announce the ground floor, and the doors slid open.

  ‘Where to now?’ she asked.

  ‘Back to the bike, then straight to Dungirri,’ he decided.

  The uneasiness that had dogged him since reading Vince’s will ratcheted up further. They had to stand a better chance away from the city, where Tony and Sergio didn’t have the same resources, and didn’t know the environment as well. Tony wouldn’t rest until he had the will; if he wasn’t already on his way to the Dungirri district to join Sergio, he would be as soon as word got back from the police that Gil had it.

  It was just on noon now. He and Kris could be back there this evening. He could move Megan and the others to somewhere more distant – maybe enlist Mark’s help to do so.

  And then he’d prepare to face Tony and Sergio.

  It was well past dark when they rode through Dungirri. The town was quiet, only a few regulars’ cars in front of the pub, no-one out on the streets. They didn’t stop. Kris took the Birraga road out of town, heading to Mark’s place.

  The moon, two days past full, was rising behind them, casting shadows that mixed, among the trees at the side of the road, with those from the headlight. She wanted to crawl into a bed, curl up beside Gil, and sleep for at least ten hours. They’d taken it in turns driving, but there was little rest in being a passenger on the bike, and she knew they were both on the edge of exhaustion. A couple of brief stops for fuel and food had kept them going, but she counted now the remaining distance to Mark’s place – twenty kilometres on the Birraga side of Dungirri.

  Seventeen, when she passed the turn to Gil’s father’s place. Fifteen, when she passed Delphi O’Connell’s farm, a light still on in the front room. Five, when she approached the turn onto the dirt road leading to Mark’s.

  Ahead, two vehicles swung out of the road, turned towards Birraga, tail lights disappearing into the darkness. She idly wondered which property they’d come from – there were three or four down the fifteen-kilometre road.

  As she decelerated for the turn, a flash of light in the sky beyond the trees caught her attention. She slowed right down, trying to catch it again. A shooting star? A plane? A few properties around here had airstrips – Mark’s included – but planes rarely landed at night out here, except in an emergency. The light in the sky swung around, too manoeuvrable for a plane, more the motion of a helicopter – and from the direction of Mark’s place. Helicopters only flew around here at night in an emergency, too.

  She rounded the corner, took the speed up as far as she dared on the dirt, and raced to Mark’s.

  TWENTY

  The steel gates at the entrance to the property dragged crookedly on their hinges, bent and twisted, and the intercom unit set into the brick gatepost hung by a wire, the others cut, the metal smashed by something heavy.

  Kris killed the bike’s engine, coasting in to the shadow of nearby trees.

  When they’d left Sydney, she’d taken her police weapon from her backpack and tucked it into the back of her jeans, as a precaution. Now she drew it, waving Gil into the cover of the old pine trees lining the long drive. They moved quickly but with caution up the drive, staying in the shadows of the trees, Gil, unarmed, close behind Kris.

  There were no lights on in the house, and no vehicles outside it. While the possibility that the chopper had been at some other property had occurred to her, it didn’t explain the busted gates, the lack of lights – or the open front door.

  ‘If the emergency chopper had picked up someone, there’d be at least an ambulance, and probably police vehicles here,’ she whispered to Gil. He nodded in agreement, his eyes hard and cold.

  As they came in sight of the multi-car garage beside the house, her suspicions of something sinister were realised. The doors were open, the cars – hers, Liam’s, Mark’s – riddled with bullet holes, windows shattered, tyres blown apart.

  A voice came from the house, and she caught Gil’s arm as he surged forward, but let go when Mark stumbled out on to the veranda, torch in one hand, propping himself up against a post for steadiness,
his head bleeding as he yelled into a phone.

  They raced to him as he demanded ambulance and police, reached him as he shook the phone in disgust. Dazed and not quite with it, he slid down the post to the wooden floor. ‘This phone’s not working. Old one – they smashed the others.’

  She had her phone out, cursing the time it took to turn on, at the same time trying to examine his head wound and check his responses.

  Gil went straight inside, calling for Megan, Deb and Liam. Kris didn’t hear any answering calls.

  ‘What happened, Mark? Where are the others?’

  ‘Cars. At least eight men, with weapons. Balaclavas – couldn’t see who they were. Then the helicopter landed. They took the girls. Tried to stop them but …’ He indicated his head. ‘Rifle butt. Hard. Liam’s down – shot I think.’

  Her phone beeped to announce its readiness – at last – and she dialled the emergency number as she took the torch, ordered Mark to stay put, and ran inside, searching for Liam.

  ‘I’ll need both police and ambulance,’ she told the operator. ‘Two women have just been abducted from the home of Federal MP Mark Strelitz, twenty kilometres west of Dungirri in northern New South Wales.’ She briskly gave the address, added when the operator sought more details, ‘The Birraga police know where it is. I’m their sergeant. Tell them the abductors are in a helicopter, which headed west or southwest about ten minutes ago. There are two casualties on the ground, so put me through to the ambulance operator now.’

  Finding the main rooms of the house empty, she stepped out on to the terrace, and in a sweep of the torch she caught sight of Gil out in the paddock beyond, kneeling on the ground beside Liam.

  ‘Two males injured,’ she told the ambulance operator as she ran across the ground. ‘One with blunt force trauma to the head, conscious and talking but dazed.’

  Blood. Blood on Liam’s chest, and on his thigh. Blood all over Gil’s hands, as he pressed against the two wounds. Her brain registered it, reeled from it, even as her training kicked in and she kept speaking clearly to the emergency operator.